


There Won't Be Trumpets

by executrix



Category: Blake's 7, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AUs, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:28:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27342766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/executrix/pseuds/executrix
Summary: Ron Weasley recruits some Responsible Adult Leadership during the fourth book.
Relationships: None
Comments: 3
Kudos: 4





	There Won't Be Trumpets

_Unhappy the land that has no hero…  
Unhappy the land that needs a hero.  
[Brecht, Galileo]_

_He may not be the cavalier,  
Proud and handsome,  
Young and strong.  
Doesn’t matter, just as long   
As he comes along…_

_We can wait.  
What’s another day?  
He has lots of hills to climb.  
And a hero never comes,  
Till the nick of time._  
(Sondheim, “There Won’t Be Trumpets,” [Anyone Can Whistle])

1\.   
I’m important, Ron Weasley thought. And once they realize it’s me that Saved the Day, they’ll all know it. 

Prudently hidden near the fringe of the Forbidden Forest, Ron consulted the crumpled bit of parchment one last time just to be sure, put it back in his pocket, and took out his wand. He gazed at it anxiously and gave it a little shake; it seemed to be holding up for the moment. Ron hated it when anyone took the piss out of his wand (a phrase he had learned not to use within earshot of Hermione).

After a few minutes’ application in the Library (as he’d be sure to tell Miss Bossy-Boots Granger that anybody could do it the next time she complained about doing his Prep) he had ascertained the proper spell for a crossover. “Chiasmus!” he intoned. 

During the recently ended holiday, his father had brought home a fascinating Muggle artifact from the office. The elder Weasley had intended to devote intensive study to it. Unfortunately, however, after stringing the requisite web of tendrils and causing the device to engage in a simulacrum of copulation with it (which had involved drilling holes in the wall for some reason), after only a few hours there came a shower of sparks and a conflagration that took multiple and intensive wand-work to put out.

Of course Ron wasn’t allowed anywhere near the room that had been pressed into service as an experimental laboratory. He didn’t get to see much of the thing, just glimpses from the staircase. But it was clear enough that it was some sort of newspaper or chronicle--you could tell from the moving images. And, more to the point, it was a chronicle of something jolly useful going on in Muggledonia. 

And speaking of places Ron wasn’t allowed to be…well, as far as he could tell, the Order of the Phoenix was devoted to finding out how much sod-all a bunch of the most powerful wizards could manage if they got together and worked really hard on it. If the grownups weren’t going to pull their fingers out, then it devolved on the younger generation to put You Know Who back in the box once and for all. And for once, Ron decided, he was going to be in the forefront rather than in the van providing mere worshipful support.

Just as Ron was beginning to wonder if he’d achieved anything after all, two white outlines shimmered in the twilight.

2\.   
Once her case was unpacked and her clothes neatly hung up, Hermione stopped at the Buttery for a mug of mulled pumpkin juice en route to the Common Room.

Harry (very possibly because he didn’t give a monkey’s toss about whether his clothes were neatly hung up) was already there, staring into the fire.

“Good hols?” he asked.

“Not specially,” Hermione said. “There was this stupid show, it was an anti-war benefit…”

“Really?” Harry asked. “I didn’t think Muggles would take an interest. Anyway, no point in being against the war, what we’ve got to do is figure out how to win it.”

“No, it was a Muggle war they were upset about…in Iraq….ah, Mesopotamia, where the scrolls come from? And the first bit is called “Magic To Do,” so my parents thought it would be rippingly funny if I did that. Well, ha ha bloody ha. How about you?”

“I got to go to the cinema, I usually like that, and the film wasn’t so bad,” Harry said. “Smashing battle scenes. But I must say, it made me realize how much room for improvement there is round here if I’m going to have an elf poncing about in a loincloth calling me ‘Master’.”

Ron pelted into the Common Room, and said, “Better come outside with me right now…I mean, they’d never remember all the passwords, and probably get lost anyway, I know I did for at least two terms….”

On the way out of the castle, Harry said, “Care to let us debrief you on this one, Ron?”

“Well, you see, there was this chap I saw on a Muggle newspaper that Dad brought home. Devotes his whole life to fighting against an evil, corrupt dictatorship, and he’s a dab hand with guns and bombs and all that. And he hardly gives any speeches, that’s a help too.” 

“Muggle newspaper?” Hermione said. “What’s so special about a few sheets of paper?”

“No, this wasn’t paper, it came out of a box with a glass front, say two feet on a side, jolly nice newspaper, with bright colors and music and everything.”

“Oh, Merl’ alors,” Hermione said. “You were watching a television set.”

Ron nodded and filed away the fascinating foreign phrase for future use. Sometimes his Mum made jellies, so it must be like that.

“And here they come now,” Ron said comfortably.

Both Ron and Harry took some pleasure in the unusual sight of Hermione’s dropped jaw.

“This is Roj Blake,” Ron said, indicating the tall, curly-haired man, clad in a rustic ensemble that, in a larger size, Hagrid might have coveted. “And Vila Restal. Everybody just calls him Vila.”

“How the hell did you do that, Ron?” she asked. 

“Ah, well, academy for young wizards, spell, hello….”

“And why?”

“He’s a Burly Rebel, isn’t he? And we want to start a rebellion, don’t we? All the grownups we know are fairly useless, but that doesn’t mean that there aren’t any useful grownups if you know where to look,” Ron said.

“Really, Miss Granger,” the big curly-haired man said, in a reassuring rumble (Hermione warmed to him at once) “We’re constantly being haled into all sorts of places. Most of them chalkier and less attractive than this one. Young Ron told me a bit about your problems. We frequently answer distress signals, and we’ll be glad to help you.”

“I don’t see what you can do. Not to put too fine a point on it, Mr. Blake, you’re a fictional character.” She wondered if the International Statute of Secrecy was limited to communications with entities that actually existed. She reminded herself to suggest that to Ron as a possible defense before the Wizenagemot.

“Now, if that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black.”

Harry shot him a worried look. If everybody, fictional or otherwise, knew about him, Sirius didn’t stand a chance of staying hidden.

“I mean, when our archeologists uncover a pre-Atomic settlement, they can’t move for copies of Harry Potter books, “ Blake told her.

I don’t see why they can’t call them Ron Weasley books Ron and Vila thought simultaneously. Harry relaxed, with a little sigh.

“Cauldrons,” Hermione said helpfully. “We call them cauldrons.” 

3.  
Vila thought that the skinny black horse sort of creature looked a bit, well, off its feed or something. He wanted to give it a sugar lump. Possibly, judging by its jaded appearance, one dipped in absinthe. He did have an open packet of Bertie Botts’ Every Flavour Beans in his jacket, but the reason it was still an open packet was the fourth one he had eaten, and the equine looked like it had troubles of its own.

A girl, looking odd even in context, walked over to Vila. “Do they ever race these things?” Vila asked her. {{What with the wings and all, they should make bloody good time…even on a muddy track.}} “Strictly to improve the breed, of course,” he said piously. 

“That’s a thestral,” Luna told him. 

For a moment, Vila luxuriated in the thought of a crack racing stable. You couldn’t have Royal Mounties without something to mount them on, after all. He could practically see the platoons of Restal’s Thestral Vestals in their red fur silks.

“So you can see ‘em, then?” Luna asked him.

“Course I can. Sometimes I see pink asteroids and so on that aren’t exactly there, but I’m a dab hand at seeing things that are there.”

“Me too,” Luna said. “But that’s what makes us special. You can only see thestrals if you’ve gazed upon the chilling skeletal face of Death. So, squire, some hope of the punters taking your word for it which one of ‘em won the race.”

4.  
“Please sit down,” Hermione said. To prove that it was an informal occasion, she took off her robe and pinned her Prefect badge on her cardigan. (She had cleared the Gryffindor Common Room by the simple expedient of shouting “ExNaff Omnes!”) 

“Aren’t young people supposed to be idealistic?” Hermione asked. “I just can’t get anyone to take an interest in S.P.E.W.” She filled Blake’s goblet and passed him the plate of Frog Chip biscuits. With her hands free, she could take up her knitting needles.

“Perhaps…well, the name isn’t immediately inviting,” Blake said.

“And I suppose you could do better,” Hermione huffed. It was warm near the fire; she took off her cardigan and pinned her Prefect badge on her blouse. 

“Let’s see…well…Guild of All Lifeforms for Liberation of Elves in Our Nation?”

“Money! Why does everything always come down to money?”

Blake thought that quite often it came down to sex, violence or both but he was certainly not going to Bring a Blush to the Cheek of a Young Person. “You see, the way to appeal to people, at least just at first is to appeal to their self-interest. For instance,” (Blake put down the goblet, its level nearly unreduced) “You might start with a Campaign for Real Butterbeer. That would get some attention, but in a non-threatening way. Teach them about organizing, building consensus, forming coalitions…the skills you need to build a movement. And then, later on, you can move on to other things. Some people won’t want to take risks, and you have to respect that. You know, as a commander, you have to be prepared for losses. Not cynical about that, no, never that, or you lose a part of yourself. But you daren’t put people in harm’s way if they’re not prepared to fight.”

“I’m frightened,” Hermione said, looking into the flames instead of facing Blake. “I want to fight--well, I don’t want to but I know I, we have to. But it’s not fair! I mean, You-Know-Who is going to win, isn’t he? He’d have to. We’ve done ourselves no good by alienating the Goblins, and the Centaurs hate us, I don’t even want to think about the Giants, and I can’t see the House Elves fighting on our side after what we’ve done to them. And I know that Dumbledore is one of the most powerful wizards who ever lived--I’ve got to believe it!--but really, if he were, why would they lumber him with a lot of schoolkids? And why would he be content with it?”

“The best is an honorable victory,” Blake said. “But perhaps the next best is an honorable defeat.”

5.  
{{How odd}}, Professor Umbridge thought. {{Whatever could have happened to the eighth kitten plate? That wretched house elf must have broken it, and been too cowardly to tell me. Ah, well.}} Those miniature flans from that dear Miss Servalan (the charming young lady she had met in an antique shop in Hogsmeade, haggling over the sweetest little Kali matryoshka) looked awfully tempting. And what a kind gesture, to send a hostess gift as a thank-you for the simple cup of tea and biscuits in Umbridge’s rooms. 

Although Umbridge enjoyed the half-dozen delicious little flans, she did have to rinse her mouth out afterward; the custard was not quite smooth.

6.  
Vila didn’t mind getting the firewhiskys in for Fred and George--he would have asked the same when he was their age--but the Hog’s Head wasn’t living up to its reputation for vileness, even though he awarded 10/10 for Squalor. There was nothing much to do but regale the twins with selective stories of his greatest criminal exploits.

Then Vila’s eyes lit up when he glimpsed Mundungus Fletcher. 

Fred sidled up to him. “Stay away!” he told Vila. 

“No, really, he looks like a nice bloke. When Greek meets Greek, y’know, they say….”

“He’s an Auror!” Fred said dramatically. George goggled at him.

“Yeh? Well, I can be pretty ‘orrible myself when I want to be,” Vila lied. 

“No, he’s a…you know, catches crooks and puts them in Azkaban…”

Vila flinched, paled, and edged away from Mundungus’ orbit.

7A  
In the Wizarding World, he who can, does, he who cannot, teaches, and he who cannot teach, teaches DADA. Things have not changed so much since the days when a Waugh character could be consoled with “Sent down for immorality, eh? Expect you’ll become a schoolteacher, what?” So Dumbledore was grateful for the immediate appearance of a substitute, the very moment that Umbridge was rushed to St. Mungo’s with a puzzling abdominal illness. After all, under Educational Decree 22, he had to be damn nippy on his pins about finding a new professor. 

(When Umbridge collapsed in convulsions of agony, Madam Sprout took the Fifth Years to the greenhouse and assigned them half an hour of Encouraging Thoughts and Talking to their Plants.

“This isn’t half boring,” Ron whispered to Dean Thomas. “It’s like watching a television set.”

“You what?” he said.)

Many, many parents had sent Dumbledore Howlers complaining about the lack of Practicals, and the consequent risk that their offspring would fail the standardized tests mandated by the Leave No Wizard Behind Decree. That softened him up to take on the new arrival for the frail and evanescent thing that is a DADA teacher’s engagement at Hogwarts. Her generations of pure blood, and her close familial connection to the Black family, also promoted her case. Dumbledore wondered about the meaning of the runes “LV” and “CC” on her robes, (one facing the future, one the past, he deduced) but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

7B  
[Three months earlier]

Space stations are all very well, for being stationed in space and suchlike, but they offer limited scope for ancient dungeons with damp, moss-spotted stones. The best Servalan could contrive was a dark chamber hidden deep within headquarters, nearest to the doughnut hole. 

There, the sacrifice awaited her, nude, bound to the altar. 

“Mistress, may ye kill him?” her acolyte suggested diffidently.

Awww. The Victim looked so cute and lanky, with his blue eyes blazing. 

Servalan ruthlessly Had Her Way With Him, then used her ceremonial dagger to cut his bonds. He leaped up, removing the gag from his mouth and draping it in front of himself, and rushed out. 

FSA Cadet Tarrant, D., No. 94G20394-12.B-3729 decided that he was mature enough to dispense with further education. 

“I suppose the ceremony can wait until tomorrow,” Servalan said languidly. “Get me another one.”

“I’m sorry, SorcerPreme Commander,” her acolyte stuttered. “Did ye not ken? Ye’ve been stationed here for six months and yon was the last virgin…”

In a moment, Servalan’s glance flicked over him, turning from fury, revulsion, to resigned acceptance.

“Ach, I’d be glad to give my life for ye, Madame, but there was that mission you sent me on, to Rictus-Theta, it was during their Festival, y’see, and the honor of the Federation demanded that I not offend them and their customs…”

8  
“Good afternoon, class,” said Professor Servalan. Today we will be learning about…”

“Boggarts,” Jarriere stage-whispered, his finger stuck in the textbook.

“Boggarts.” Servalan didn’t remember much of her schooldays, but that sounded familiar. “And the Defense is…ah, yes. ‘Here’s looking at you, kid.’”

“It…is…not,” Hermione muttered.

“Ha! Ha! Very clever of you to spot that, Miss Granger. All right, Mr. Crabbe, can you tell me five other things that cannot be used to defend against a Boggart attack?”

“Errm? Marmalade?” he said.

“Very good. Four more?”

“Snot. Throwing it on the bottom of the swimming baths and jumping on it! Having a House Elf piddle on it!!” he said, with a crescendo of enthusiasm. “Ummm, dunno, I can’t think of another one.”

“Well, you gave it a jolly good try,” Servalan said encouragingly. “Miss Brown, can you think of five things that are entirely ineffective against Boggarts?”

“Raindrops on roses…whiskers on kittens…”

“Yes, yes, that will do.” She went around the room, which killed about ten minutes, while Hermione silently fumed. 

“Now, does anyone know what can be done?”

Servalan pointed to Hermione’s frantically waving hand. The disquisition accounted for a further three minutes. “That was excellent, Miss Granger. Now, turning from Boggarts to Ogres, are there any interesting features in the life cycle of the Ogre that are relevant to Defense? Miss Granger?” asked Servalan, who rummaged in her memory for the name of that know-it-all suck-up at FSA who was always polishing Professor Kasabi’s boots…with her tongue. Ah, yes. That was Maxine. Maxine Thania. 

As the students filed out of the classroom, Hermione thought that despite the poor start, it had turned into an excellent lesson. She couldn’t wait for the next one.

9

Nearly Headless Nick had seen a lot in his time, so he was only mildly interested to see Draco Malfoy, spread-eagled on the air, whiz past him. 

(“Expelliarmus!” Servalan said, followed by an afterthought of “Locomotor robes!”) 

It was all very well, she thought crossly, to have an inexhaustible supply of teenage boys, but in practice they generally proved not merely exhaustible but precipitous.

10  
Fred explained his plan.

“Crikey!” George said. “You’re a maniac!”

11  
Dumbledore’s first impulse had been to tell Harry to suck it up and take one for the team. Having a direct line to The Dark Lord’s thought processes would, after all, have been invaluable. But that would wrap things up far too early, leaving two volumes of nothing but curtainfic.

The tete-a-tete with the nearest member of the Order of the Phoenix was not immediately productive. (“What part of ‘Eat Death and Die’ didn’t you understand?” Snape said.) So, once again, Dumbledore was grateful for the new arrival. All right, seeing the listing for “Legiliman<33!!!” on her curriculum vitae wasn’t completely reassuring, but he had to cut his robes, as it were, to fit his cloth.

12  
In the dead of night, Vila checked the wagon hitch and hopped up on the thestral.   
“Come on, come on,” he whispered to Fred and George. 

Fred tried to climb on behind Vila--it was dark enough that being able to see the putative mount wouldn’t have helped much--but his first few attempts were not only unavailing but annoyed the thestral. 

“Just get in the wagon,” Vila said. “Both of you.” 

Vila was frankly rather contemptuous of the Gringott’s branch office in Hogsmeade. His daytime stakeout revealed only a few guards promenading around the diminutive building (well suited to its customers). He knew there was only one night watchcreature, who worked for the Hogsmeade Merchants’ Association as a whole, so there was a clear 20 minutes they could count on before the next circuit.

“There aren’t any wards, are there?” George whispered to Fred.

“Course not. Why bother?”

Vila got the roof hatch open. They spread Upsy-Daisy Glue on the roof, attached Springing Shoelaces, and dropped down to the center of the bank’s marble-tiled lobby. “Upsy!” Fred said, and the glue vanished. They rolled up the Shoelaces, and Vila headed toward the cage covering the vault door. Moments later, he bent over the thick, hatch-like door to the vault itself. 

Three minutes later (after Fred whispered “Alohomora!”) Vila turned around, said, “Any very talented person could have done it” and gestured toward the open vault.

Fred ran to open the door to the loading ramp. After they got four chests loaded onto the cart, Vila gestured for them to leave. “No use getting greedy, lads,” he said. He closed up the vault, leaped onto the thestral, and was a mile away before the watchgoblin returned.

“Here, lads,” he said. “One chest for you, three for me. That should help you out with your joke shop.”

“Oh, we couldn’t take it,” George said. “It’s all yours.”

Vila’s eyebrows rose.

“We’re glad to do it for free, just for the chance of seeing an artist at work…in fact, artistry at work,” Fred said.

13  
Pansy Parkinson tottered toward the Slytherin table for lunch (she had practiced the Bonus Charm Professor Servalan taught them--“Accio Manolo”), a contented grin on her face. “Oh, I love Professor Servalan!” she said. “All right, class is as boring as a wet Sunday, but she’s just so glamorous! And who ever thought of wearing bias cut satin beneath her robes?”

There was a rustle of wings over the Gryffindor table. Oh, lovely, Hermione thought. Mummy answered my Owl.

Dear Hermione:  
I’m glad to hear that you have an adult to help you out with You Know What. I must say I was surprised to hear that you have characters from the telly there, but, well, then I reminded myself what sort of school you go to so I suppose it’s only to be expected. 

I always did like Blake, and Vila was sweet, of course. Pity that Avon didn’t come along, but then you’re too young to know why! And I quite liked Servalan, she was so evil but she had such style. Smashing programme that one. I haven’t watched it in ages, perhaps your Dad and I will dig out the old tapes and have a look. Maybe this time you’ll be in it!! (or does it work that way?)

Don’t forget to floss every night, and particularly after every chocolate frog. At your last checkup you had several 1mm pockets. Unless they give you some sort of WaterWand or whatever to ablate plaque. 

Dad sends his love too.

Hermione’s blood froze. She bolted her lunch and pelted toward the most private place she could find--the Library stacks, nobody ever went there, only to discover Neville Longbottom sitting at a carrel in the Herbology area, dreamily turning the pages of a huge illustrated book.

She fished through the pockets of her robes for the fell cellytone….cell fellytone…cell telephone that her parents had given her for emergencies. Luckily it was Tuesday, and Mummy never had surgery hours on Tuesdays. 

“Is everything all right, dear?” Dr. Granger asked.

“Oh, yes, please don’t worry. I just have to ask you a question. Is ‘Servalan’ a common name among Mu….a common name?”

“I don’t think so, I think the BBC made it up.”

“And what did she look like? The one in the programme?”

“Oh, like that daughter of Judy Garland’s…what’s her name?”

“Mummy!”

“Big brown eyes, she looked rather sweet…dark hair, she kept it cut very short, I remember that. And she always wore ball dresses, even in the middle of the day.”

14

Draco lounged against the wall of the corridor, the shiny black leather Sam Browne belt of the Inquisitorial Squad nipping his robes. “Just where d’you think you’re going?”

Harry sighed and extended the pass authorizing him to go to Professor Servalan’s office. The cover story was Remedial DADA. In light of the amount of extracurricular Defense he’d done, Harry didn’t think that would hold Tincture of WyvernWeed for a moment. Even if it did, Draco would tell everyone what an ignoramus Potter was, but in light of the new educational regime, embarrassment didn’t seem quite as terrifying as most of the alternatives.

Draco read the pass, and merely flinched, shrugged his shoulders, said “Professor Servalan, eh? Best of Wizarding, mate,” and allowed Harry to pass. 

“There you are, Harry,” Professor Servalan said. “Let’s skip the pleasantries and cut to the pursuit ship chase. “

Jarriere put a bookmark into a folio bound in claw-tooled hippogriff leather, brandished a newly-purchased wand, and shouted, “Legilimens!” He was up to no good, so he thought Illegilimens would be more to the point, but that was what the book said, and he followed it. 

“Yes?” Servalan asked. “What do you see?”

“Ah…he’s in a very dark place…in a lift…a lot of doors…yes, Supreme Commander! Yes! He’s in the Room of the Load of Old Balls!”

Servalan’s breath caught. If he found the correct Prophecy, she would learn how to bring entire Galaxies under her sway.

“And he’s picking one up! No, he’s got two of them!”

“And what do they say?”

“One of ‘em is ‘Vampire With a Soul.’ And the other one is ‘No, Not Him, The OTHER Vampire With a Soul.’ But…but…it’s fading! It’s all gone! I can’t see anything else!”

Servalan permitted herself one short screech, then forced herself to regain her composure. “Oh, very well. You might as well do something you can handle adequately--go into Hogsmeade and see if my robe has been mended. The red one, with the crystal niffler on the front.” 

“Madame, I’m desolated to have failed ye again, let me try again, the bairn’s still alive, is he not?”

“Oh, go iron your hands,” Servalan said. “Give me the wand. And don’t let the Colloportus hit you in the arse on the way out.”

Moments later, Harry regained his senses, on all fours on the floor of the office.  
“Madame Servalan,” he said, “You’re trying to seduce me…aren’t you?” His voice wobbled a little bit. He’d have been certain enough if he’d fetched up in that position in Snape’s office; but then again you never knew, with grownups.

15  
Vila stumbled down the corridor. {{This always happens to me. It bloody always happens to me. Why does it always bloody happen to me?}}

“Oh, there you are, Mr. Restal,” Hermione said. “Could you please find Mr. Blake and tell him I must speak to him right away, here? It’s very important. But if you can’t find him just at first, tell him that there’s going to be a B.A.--that is, a D.A.--meeting in ten minutes in the Room of Requirement.”

“All right, but where’s that when it’s at home?” It had not been an enjoyable morning for Vila. He was in a right Mood.

“Oh, you know…the Come and Go Room.”

“Blimey, they don’t half understand sixteen-year-old boys round here. Nice of them to cater.”

“No, it’s…well, tell him that if he needs to find it, he will. Oh, good…there’s Dobby, our House Elf…our retired House Elf, who needless to say is much happier now that he’s been freed,” Hermione said needily. “He’s the one who reminded us about it. Just follow him.”

Hermione waited for five minutes, then rushed off to prepare the room for the D.A. meeting. Blake and Vila came through the door, looked around curiously, and were nearly knocked down by Ron, who ran to the center of the room and started talking before Hermione could draw Blake aside for a private warning.

“This is Roj Blake,” Ron said. “And he’s a very famous rebel! And I brought him here to help us out. Dunno how he’s going to, but just remember who it was that thought of getting him after we win.”

“Ah, well,” Hermione said. “Mr. Blake, would you mind saying a few words?” 

“I’m very proud to see you all here,” Blake said. “Excuse me if my voice isn’t quite steady. You remind me so much of many of my fine young comrades. And of many brave men and women who fought by my side, and who died fighting. I don’t have any comfort to offer you, in terms of the inevitability of the victory of the Good. But what I can testify, from my own experience, is that when you confront Evil, the only thing to do is to fight it. Not the best thing, or the thing that’ll make you proudest, but the only thing. 

Because if you surrender, then you can’t even guarantee yourself generations of slavery. Because your conquerors will have no compunction about slaughtering what they see as inferior weaklings. And, in a way, that makes your task easier. When your enemies are decent, confused people who love their country and their flag as much as you love yours, then perhaps you can negotiate, perhaps you can make accommodations, knowing that they are only men and women like yourselves. And after the truce, perhaps you can live together. But when your enemy hates everything that is human, when there is no accommodation possible, then the choice is out of your hands. You won’t all survive, but you will know the satisfaction of doing everything you can, in the right cause, and you’ll know the love of those who fight side by side to defend what is best in being human.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said simply, her heart swelling with renewed conviction and joy for the battle. “Mr. Blake, perhaps you could answer a few questions?” She hoped that her schoolmates would take full advantage of the opportunity. She even hoped, forlornly, that somebody would draw the connection and raise the question of House Elf Rights.

“Of course,” he said, with a warm smile.

“What kind of broom do you have?” Dean Thomas asked. “A Nimbus, a Firebolt…?”

“I don’t,” Blake said. “I have a spaceship, though.”

“Do you get your wands in Diagon Alley, or have them made special?” Cho Chang asked.

“I’m afraid I have to disappoint you again,” Blake said. “Haven’t got any.”

“But then, how do you do spells?” asked someone Hermione thought was a Third Year from Ravenclaw.

“Well, I don’t, actually, you see…”

“You’re a squib?” Hannah Abbott asked, unwilling to even think of the alternative.

“No, he isn’t,” Luna said. “He just hasn’t found the stone with the sword in it yet. Or it hasn’t found him”

“Oh, go on, it’s dead easy,” the Ravenclaw said, as usual as if Luna hadn’t said anything. “Have a go, just a little Reparo or something.”

“Here,” Hermione said. “You can use mine.” 

Because Neville was Most Improved, she let him show Blake how to work his first spell. Blake had some interesting and pointed questions about charms, spells, hexes and jinxes. Hermione was glad, not only to hear his voice but because after all it was O.W.L. year for some of them (well, if they lived that long of course) and a bit more revision wouldn’t come amiss for some of the weaker students. She rather hoped that at some point she’d be able to tell Dumbledore how well his Army had performed on their exams.

“I suppose we ought to go,” Hermione said. “Just a few at a time. Careful not to be spotted!” She turned to Ron, suddenly worried. “Where’s Harry? Is he all right?”

“Yeah, he’s fine, said to tell you that he has his Oc…his Remedial DADA class with Professor Servalan. I was going to tell you, it slipped my mind.”

“SERVALAN?” Blake roared, in a voice of thunder.

“Err, well, yes,” Justin Finch-Fletchley said, looking out the window. “But she must be done by now, she’s standing right there on the lawn. With Hagrid--blimey, he’s looking a bit rough--and that assistant of hers, Renfield or whatever his name is.”

Blake, followed by Hermione and Vila, rushed out of the room and down the stairs.

16  
“I’m your worst nightmare, Blake! A genocidal maniac with an Imperius!”

“Expecto Patronus!” Blake said. And, from the tip of his wand, after a cloud of mist appeared and dissipated, sprang a huge bull, panting and snorting. 

“Sometimes there’s a Corporeal Patronus,” Hagrid mused. “And so quickly! Yerr a wizard, Roj!”

At first, Servalan was transfixed with horror, too terrified to do anything. Then she  
shut her mouth with a snap, gathered up her skirts, and began to run. 

The bull, showing no interest whatsoever in pursuing her, frolicked through the meadow, stopping to sniff at the lovely flowers with a goofy grin on his face.

Servalan sneered, and ran back toward the wand she had discarded as she fled.

Vila picked up one from the stack of cauldrons against the wall of the nearest building and clocked her over the head with it. She crumpled to the ground, and he let go of the cauldron, which landed over her head with a clang.

“Accio us! No, Apport…now!” Vila said. If things had gone differently, he might have minded the sudden exit, but as it was, the further away he got from the bloody place, the happier he’d be.

“Hem, hem?” Orac said.

There was only a moment, while Jarriere fumbled with the rim of the cauldron. Hermione whispered to him. Blake bowed slightly, returned Hermione’s wand, and kissed her on the cheek.

“Teleport! Teleport!” Vila said. 

And, as they vanished, Hermione stood watching, her fingertips brushing her cheek, her eyes moist and dazzled.

17  
“And, just as I was going to ring you up and ask how to get the stuff up here, well, it was the next day, and I was just having a nice gloat over the chests. And then I opened one of ‘em, and it was empty. And so were all the rest of them. Of course I thought it was that those Weasleys doing me over, I went to Have a Word and they said that…”

“It was leprechaun gold,” Avon said, once he stopped laughing and got his breath back. “Oh, Vila, only a halfwit like you could steal a load of gold that disappears as soon as your back is turned.”

“That’s not fair,” Vila said sulkily. “That sort of thing could happen to anybody.” 

At shift change, Blake and Jenna came into the crew room. “Ah, good, there you two are. Hope you have a nice quiet watch.”

“So, what was Harry Potter like?” Jenna said. “I quite liked those books, when I was just young.”

“Do you know, I hardly saw him. I spent most of my time with Hermione--nice girl, for a fictional character, and with a very promising political perspective…”

“It’s easy enough to have that, if you’re fictional,” Avon said. “It’s only the knocks that reality delivers to your simple-minded certainties that cause the difficulties.”

“At any rate, she asked me to give you a message. She said that in a couple of years, you’re going to meet a fellow named….” Blake paused; dammit, he hadn’t had much of a memory for names even before he was mind-wiped…(“Tell him not to believe Tarrant, not to believe what Tarrant says,” Hermione told him.) “Something with a Tar….”

“Tarvin? Don’t trust Tarvin? Of course not,” Jenna said. “Don’t trust Amagons, I can tell you that for nothing.”

###  
Who needs trumpets?


End file.
